i hold my mind up to the light, and turn it this way and that, examining the cracks, peering into it,
checking its clarity.  
i can stand this way, outside of myself, and say 'this is a clear mind', 'there are cracks, but nothing too serious, nothing that can't be mended'
but my mind is a tricky thing.  it breaks glass.  it slips and oozes through my fingers, falls to the floor, spills.

liquid truth stains the carpet of my interior.  no spot remover can take this blemish away.
and i cannot just leave it there on the floor for all the world to see.  i'm down on my knees, scrubbing and scrubbing through the night, but liquid truth just moves on down the hallway.  it is mercury, skittering away from my frantic hands.  

all the while, my mind sits in the corner and laughs at my futility, recording everything on film, news at 9.